Songs of Slaying
by Michelle
Summary: WIP - Four years after the War of the Ring, trouble stirs in Emyn Arnen.
1. Chapter One

Songs of Slaying  
  
by Michelle  
  
Disclaimer : Not mine. Suing makes baby Ingwë cry.   
  
***  
  
Dawn broke that day full of hope, its eyes turned toward the future. The first rays of the morning sun gently kissed the dew away from otherwise untouched blades of grass. The sky looked aflame in its multi-hued newness, causing anyone fortunate enough to be awake at that moment to gasp in awe. Morning in Ithilien was something to be envied by everyone.   
  
Including the band of Haradrim making their way quickly toward Emyn Arnen.  
  
***  
  
Éowyn of Ithilien woke alone, surprised in the first few moments of her wakefulness that her husband lay not in the bed beside her. Soon though, she recalled the reason for his absense and stilled the wash of confusion in her stomach.  
  
Her husband, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, was fulfilling the role bestowed upon him by those titles, aiding the King in some particularly frustrating legal difficulties in the capitol city, Minas Tirith. As he had been for the past month, Faramir was embroiled in trade negotiations, border disputes, and the like.   
  
It was not his choice to be there, this Éowyn knew beyond a doubt. He would rather, as he often reminded in each of his lengthy missives, be here in tranquil Emyn Arnen, far away from the rigours of city life and closer to his young family. Ever mindful of his own past, Faramir was determined not lack in any manner as a father to their young son, Elboron.  
  
And if her current disposition was any indication, soon their young son would be joined by another child. Éowyn's hand flittered to her stomach as she stood and made to dress for the day, her thoughts lingering on her far away husband.  
  
Soon enough, she thought, he would return. Perhaps by then her suspicions would be confirmed and she would be able to greet her love with the blessed news.   
  
She smiled through her morning meal, taken with her son in the kitchens. She herself had grown up in a much closer knit household than custom held in Gondor. She did not quite care for lonely meals taken in utter silence in great halls, though the Keep at Emyn Arnen boasted an impressive one indeed. Much more so than the one of her youth, which her brother now presided over with his Lady in Rohan. No, Éowyn was not one for these things, much prefering to break her fast in the warmth of the kitchens amongst people who talked and kept a better company than the spoons. And if the Gondorian servants in the kitchens first found this disquieting, they no longer did after their Lady's three years in residence, even finding it strange if she did not show her face at least once a day in their rooms.   
  
Noon found Éowyn hip deep in dirt and flora, happily humming a tune to herself as she whiled away her hours in the gardens her husband and his dear friend, the elf had worked on so long and hard. There was little in the world able to give her more pleasure than watching the things she placed in the earth grow, blossom, and eventually wilt, paving the way for the next season's abundance of life. Not so long ago, she would not have believed it possible to be content living thusly, in what a younger version of herself would have deemed a prison.  
  
But perhaps the walls of a prison do not seem so foreboding when you willingly embrace them and call them your home. She was content here, and aye, happy. Her life since meeting her beloved had never been what she expected, but it was more than sufficient to create such joy in her heart that she oft feared it may burst.  
  
It was this state of mind which was embracing Éowyn as the first shouts came filtering into the gardens from below. Something dark and foreboding had been sitting in the pit of her stomach for several hours, but she had put it down to the possibility of a new life. Now, she knew it for what it was. Eerie premonition, a tendancy she had been prone to more and more as of late.  
  
She rose to her feet swiftly, in one motion, her unease and fear growing with each step she took toward the edge of the gardens. She peered out over the edge of the high wall, just above the gates to the Keep and its immediate buildings.   
  
What she saw there stopped her heart.   
  
Just outside the gates a group of men swarthered in black and red were assailing her home. The very gates which, wooden, had not yet been reinforced with something sturdier and better made. The right time to do so never seemed nigh, and now that time was long past. Eight men, broken off from a force of many times as many, ran at the gate with a battering ram. Éowyn felt their impact in her jaw. A squadron of Rangers and a few personal guards were all that stood between her and these invaders.   
  
Between them and her son.  
  
"Elboron . . ." she choked out, running madly for the nursery where he had been for the past several hours with his nurse. The short flights of stairs never before seemed as long as they did in those moments.  
  
She found herself at the door to her son's nursery, flinging the door open and rushing inside. His nurse stood as her Lady rushed within, surprised.  
  
"Milady . . ?" She asked as Éowyn swooped up the sleeping form of her son and turned to leave.  
  
"Get yourself from the city if possible, Linyaliss. There are invaders at the gate." Éowyn swept out of the room them, heedless of the nurse's calls after her.   
  
Elboron roused in his mother's frenzied embrace, immediately questioning, though not afraid, cradled nest to Éowyn's heart. "Mah . . ?" He murmured up at her, his tiny voice striking a deep chord of fear and possessiveness deep within her. She would allow nothing to happen to this child, even if her life hung in the balance. And indeed, given the situation, that instance was a likelihood. Gently, she stroked her son's dark hair.   
  
"Be still, Little One. Mama has you." Éowyn rushed down toward the very kitchens she sat in so happily only hours before. She hoped against reason that the back entrances there to the Keep proper would not be blocked by the enemy.   
  
The rooms were deserted as she made her entrance, but would not be for long. Shouting in a foreign tongue greeted her from the other side of the doors leading to her freedom. In the back of her mind, she identifed the unique lilt of Haradric. She cursed swiftly and violently, turning back for the comparative safety of the rest of the Keep, all the while whispering to her son, begging him to remain calm. Still sleepy and more than a little confused, this was not a difficult thing to convince the two year old of.   
  
She made her way back to the Great Hall, desperately searching out an exit to the Keep. Deep within, she knew there would be none. Her husband had built the Keep too well, too securely, trusting on a larger force to guard it in times of need. A larger force could have helped the Keep, truly her current situation was not due to a design flaw on her husband's part. But that very force was more than half the reason her husband was so long delayed in the city.  
  
The commotion in the Great Hall was frightening. She could scarcely make heads or tails of the place admist all the other people crowded within. And though it was crowded and confused, those within did not nearly make up the entire population of her small domain. These then were only those lucky enough to be inside when the Haradrim began their attack. Those outside, she knew, were likely already fallen to the curved blades of their assailers.   
  
And from the two main entrances to the Great Hall, the red clothed men began to make their presense known.  
  
There was no way out. They were trapped.   
  
Éowyn panicked, any chance of her coolness returning quickly evaporated as she watched the squad of Rangers fight back the intruders for all they were worth. Yet even this valiant effort was not enough.   
  
Éowyn ran to the steps in the back of the Hall, back to the narrow passageway which would connect with the Lord's and Lady's personal chambers. She did not look back as she ran down the hall, screams echoing behind her.   
  
There was only one chance now . . . 


	2. Chapter Two

Songs of Slaying, Chapter Two  
  
by Michelle  
  
***  
  
Faramir dressed that morning slowly, taking great care with his appearance, though it was more out of necessity to keep his headache at bay (and thus avoid any sudden movements) than it was any concern on his part for the way he looked.  
  
The headache he'd been nursing for the past two sleepless days and nights was not cured by the little slumber he'd managed the night before. If anything, it was worse. Instead of a dull ache behind his eyes, the pain spread throughout his body, trailing its fingers down his spine and winding its way about his neck and shoulders. It hurt even to think.  
  
And the nightmares surely hadn't helped matters.  
  
Visions of his home haunted him lately. The Keep of Emyn Arnen in Ithilien, it white walls assailed. The visions were colored with red flames, his subconscious combining with half-remembered events of four years past. One moment, it was he aflame, his skin boiling and peeling from his bones, staring out at his family. The next it was they who bore the torture of the fire. His wife and son screamed his name as they reached for him from within . . .  
  
Even now, he could see his son crumble to dust before his very eyes.  
  
Faramir shuddered and ran a hand through his thick hair. It would not do to think of such things now. He was already more than an hour late for the conference with two minor lords of Lebennin. Though he was worried for his family, in the end, his nightmare was just a dream. He forced himself not to listen to the nagging voice in the back of his head, his father's voice from years ago, telling him that his dreams were never simply dreams. Faramir knew that if anything was amiss in his lands, there would be news, and he took momentary comfort in this.  
  
For now he must attend a conference, the same conference which he had been embroiled in for the last several days and the cause of his sleep deprivation.  
  
He sighed, pulling the laces on his boots tighter.  
  
It was going to be a long day.  
  
***  
  
" . . . remains to be seen. Whether or not I can place my unconditional trust in this man is not an issue I should think to be entirely relevant at this juncture. I once trusted him enough to give his son my precious daughter. However, I do think that it is much more pertinent at this time to come to a complete and fair resolution, with the immediate return . . ."  
  
Faramir wasn't sure, as he had not been listening to the entirety of the speeches of the lords for quite some time, but it seemed that he'd been privy to this particular monologue at least three times previously. It never seemed to end, these complaints. Nor did they seem to change, no matter the amount of work the Steward put into their resolution. It was a small wonder then that Faramir had been forced to remain in the city for such an extended period of time.  
  
Perhaps if the dispute wasn't so petty, Faramir could have been bothered to pay true attention to the aging lords. Yet the gist of the matter, or so he gathered between shouting matches, was Lord A had married his eldest daughter to Lord B's second son, providing as dowry a rather large number of sheep and ducks. Somewhere en route from Lord A's manor to Lord B's, the flocks had vanished, likely stolen in a raid. Now Lord B was insisting that without a dower, the marriage was null and void and raised the demand for the return of his daughter. Perhaps if the marriage had not been consummated . . .  
  
When Faramir first read the official complaint, he could not figure out why the matter had escalated so. This was a simple matter, one easily remedied. This sort of thing happened more often than not in these days after the destruction of the Ring. Not all of the Dark Lord's minions were destroyed at the end of the War and many still roamed the free lands, raiding and sacking whenever and wherever they could. Faramir came up with several solutions to the matter before even meeting with the men, sure that one of his ideas would mollify them both. Each, however, had only provoked still another bout of accusations and insults slung across the tables.   
  
Faramir massaged his aching temples, wishing that he did not have to be fair and could just force a decision upon these men. In truth, if he did so, the men would have no choice but to obey the commands of their Steward. Yet still there remained a chance for a peaceful and amicable outcome with all parties properly assuaged. Faramir strove for this in all things.   
  
And so on the bickering went.  
  
He really had better things to do than listen to such blathering. When it was obvious that the debates were getting nowhere this day and he was unable to bear any more strain, Faramir raised one hand to silence the men and opened his mouth to speak.  
  
He was promptly cut off when a messenger boy bearing the personal standard of King Elessar burst into the room, gasping for breath.  
  
"Pardon me, my lords," he said, quickly bowing before the two opponents. He turned, sinking into a deep bow before Faramir. "My Lord Steward, the King requests your immediate presence in his offices."  
  
Faramir nodded curtly. "Please inform the King that I shall be along post haste." The boy returned the nod and made a quick exit from the council chamber.   
  
Faramir stood. "My lords, as much as it pains me, it appears that we must adjourn this session until a later time. Please send messengers to my offices with available times that we may reconvene on the morrow. For now, I must attend to the King."  
  
The lords, though more than slightly irked, dared not disagree with this course of action. After a swift round of farewells, Faramir left the chamber and made his way toward Aragorn's offices.   
  
As he was announced and let into the rooms, Faramir could not help but note the difference between the manner in which Aragorn kept them and his own father did. Though much of the decor was the same, Aragorn's presence somehow altered the place, bringing it alive and casting away shadows which had hung about the room for as long as Faramir could remember.  
  
Faramir bowed deeply before his king. "My Lord."  
  
Aragorn motioned for his Steward to sit. "Please Faramir. How many times have I insisted that you refrain from referring to me thusly?"  
  
"As many times as I have referred to you so, My King." The two exchanged a quick grin.  
  
The smile fell quickly from the King's face, and he brought his hands to rest on the table before him, a motion so akin to Denethor's prior to a particularly harsh tongue lashing that Faramir tensed involuntarily.  
  
"Faramir, I have some rather disquieting news that I felt you would want to be made aware of immediately." Aragorn took a deep breath, pulling forth a thin sheet of parchment and profferring it to Faramir. "It appears that we have invaders from the South in our territories again. I received this dispatch from my Queen's brothers less than an hour ago."  
  
Faramir scanned the page quickly, almost unwilling to comprehend what the letter read, hoping desperately that he was mistranslating a verb or particle somewhere.  
  
He looked up at Aragorn with wide, wild eyes. "My lord, are they sure the raiding party was headed for Emyn Arnen? Perhaps there was a mistake. There is nothing they could wish for there, we are not a rich city . . ."   
  
Aragorn lowered his eyes. "I'm afraid not. Elladan and Elrohir may be impetuous, but they have never in my lifetime been wrong about such matters."  
  
"How many?" Faramir was almost afraid to ask.  
  
"Almost one hundred." For the Haradrim, this was no simple raiding party. As a desert people, it was difficult for them to gather enough supplies to send more than twenty men from their cities. These men were after something. Faramir's stomach churned as he thought of his family.  
  
Faramir stood suddenly, dropping the parchment back on the King's desk. "With your permission, My Lord, I would like to leave for . . ."  
  
Aragorn cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I already ordered your horse readied, as well as one hundred of my best men to accompany you back to Ithilien. Valar be with you, Steward."  
  
Faramir bowed again before racing out of the room for the stables, meeting the promised men there. His head was now throbbing as the images of fire and death from the night before flashed before his eyes. He feared now the voice of his father was all too correct.  
  
Faramir fled from the city faster than he ever had in his life, barely able to refrain from forcing his mount faster than she could handle. He knew very well the defenses of his keep, or rather the lack thereof. Were the Haradric raiders to turn their attentions to Emyn Arnen, there would be little more than stone walls and a handful of Rangers to keep them at bay.  
  
He knew no greater dread than the thought of his son and wife facing the Haradrim essentially alone. Éowyn could carry her own in battle, but everyone had limits.  
  
Faramir spurred his mare on, praying that just once, the King's brothers were wrong . . .  
  
***  
  
Thank you to those who left reviews. 


	3. Chapter Three

Songs of Slaying, Chapter Three  
  
by Michelle  
  
***  
  
Éowyn was drawn from her rest with a kick to her jaw and a string of harsh words she was glad not to understand. She resisted the urge to reach her bound arms to her face to feel for damage. She would not give her captors the satisfaction.   
  
The tall man spat at her again in Haradric, then hauled her to her feet. Grabbing the binding about her wrists, he dragged her to the end of the short line where the other survivors from Emyn Arnen stood.  
  
There were so few faces . . .  
  
Her son's nurse, two young women from the kitchens, and several of the servant girls. There were no men among them, a fact that did not fail to escape Éowyn's notice. A tear came to her eye as she thought of all the people who died that day for naught. Good people, strong people, honest people. None deserved the deaths she saw as she was led bodily from the Keep. She bit back the sobs threatening in the back of her throat as she was forced into a marching pace with the other young women. It would not do to show weakness now.   
  
As they marched, Éowyn took careful note of the Haradrim, assessing their numbers and tendancies with a warrior's eye. Already in her mind were thoughts of escape, a determination to get back to Emyn Arnen and recover her son.  
  
She recalled the terrified look on Elboron's face as she wrapped him in her mantle and tucked him into the ancient standing wardrobe in her and Faramir's bedchamber. The tears that she had worked so hard to quell again welled up in her eyes, just as they had when she kissed her son on the forehead and made him promise to be silent no matter what he heard. Her little son, barely two years old, could not have comprehended the situation, yet he nodded solemnly and promised his mother.  
  
Then she closed the door to the wardrobe and walked out into the halls to meet whatever fate held for her.   
  
They'd taken her as she fumbled with the lock to her husband's office, striking her over the head to knock the fight out of her quickly. Binding her hands, they led her down to the Great Hall where the others were waiting in similar fashion.  
  
The women were forced into a a march away from Ithilien, heading south. Toward Harad, of that Éowyn was certain, though their purpose remained as of yet unclear. It did not make sense for the Haradrim to attack Emyn Arnen, only to slaughter everyone they found except for nine women. Besides reprovisioning themselves from her larder, all they took from the Keep were the women. As she marched, Éowyn pondered hard what their purpose may be. There simply would be no incentive in trying to ransom the women, especially when all of their kin lay dead by the blades of their captors. Point in fact, the only one who possibly held any weight in that manner was Éowyn herself, Princess of Ithilien, wife to the Steward of Gondor, and sister to the King of Rohan. And if they only wished to lord her captivity over the Gondorians, why take the other women as well? She could not puzzle it out.  
  
Ever present in her thoughts, however, was Elboron as she closed the doors in front of him. She prayed to the Valar that her son was safe and had remained silent enough to avoid detection by the Haradrim. She clung to that little hope, that her son was still alive and free. He must be safe. Surely she would feel something if he were otherwise.  
  
Éowyn knew that the news of the attack on the Keep would reach the city quickly, if reports of the raiders' movements were not already in the King's hands. She had been expecting the elven brothers of the King and Queen for several days and knew that they scouted the area surrounding Ithilien often as of late, hungry to rid the world of orcs. Perhaps they were able to get word to the King, as obviously none of Ithilien's own men would be able to. She was certain that tales would reach Minas Tirith soon and quickly fall to the ears of her husband. And though it may be too late for him to rescue her, perhaps Elboron would be spared.  
  
They stopped hours later, after the sun was already well below the horizon and the shadows began to overtake them. The women were again corralled in the center of the camp, well within the sight of all the members of the raiding party. There would be no escape for her this night.   
  
Several of the Haradrim removed their head wrappings to wash the day's sweat and grime from their faces. It was the first time Éowyn ever saw an uncovered face of a man of the South, though it would not be the last. She noted the stark contrast between the dark haired and olive skinned men and their pale, blonde haired captives.  
  
Pale, blonde captives?  
  
Éowyn did not at first believe her eyes, running her gaze over the hair of each of her fellow captives. Sure enough, each were as pale as she and likely just as indistinguishable from one another to the Haradrim as the Haradrim were to Éowyn's own eye. Her mind racing, she thought back to the time when she first moved to Ithilien, remembering the relative dearth of pale haired women who served there. Most of the people were dark haired Gondorians like her husband and son. In fact, she seemed to recall that in all of Emyn Arnen, there were only eight other people with light hair, five of who came with her from Rohan to serve in her household.  
  
The women who now accompanied her.  
  
It was certain this was no mistake. She looked at the bareheaded Haradrim, once more struck by their physical differences to the men of the west. Was it possible, she wondered as one of the men dropped two buckets in front of her, that blonde women were something of a rarity to the Haradrim? Enough so that they would not kill but rather capture any they found?  
  
No, she shook her head, peering into the contents of the buckets before her. If they were truly exotic creatures meant for some market in Harad or Khand, they would not be treated so roughly and would likely have already faced unwanted attentions from the men.   
  
Éowyn dipped her hand into the first bucket, taking a drink from the water within, then passed it awkwardly with her bound hands to the girl next to her. There must be something else then . . .  
  
Later on that night, Éowyn awoke suddenly, startled out of her slumber. Initially, she could not determine what woke her, until she listened closely to the words of the men sitting guard. More than once she heard her name bandied about as the men motioned toward where she lay.  
  
They weren't after just any blonde woman after all.   
  
They were after her.  
  
***  
  
Note : Thank you again to those who have reviewed. I appreciate all comments, especially ones detailing where I need to be more clear. I have many difficulties writing proper English, the least of all being Greek and Latin grammar muddling my thoughts.   
  
I am still looking for a beta reader for this, as the three people who originally contacted me for the job seem to have fallen off the face of the planet. Anyone out there willing to take on the task?  
  
For those who are wondering, the next chapter will again focus on Faramir and perhaps clear up the matter which Raksha found confusing. ^_^ 


	4. Chapter Four

Songs of Slaying, Chapter Four  
  
by Michelle  
  
***  
  
Elboron was very tired. And very confused.  
  
It wasn't that he particularly minded sitting alone in the dark for so long, even though he would rather be outside playing. He didn't even mind that he wasn't allowed to talk.   
  
It was just that Elboron had never been alone for such a long time before, especially not in such a dark place. His only light came from two slim keyholes above his head. He would have looked out of them, but his mama told him to stay still and quiet, so still and quiet he remained. Mama somehow always knew what he should do next, even when Elboron himself didn't.  
  
He just missed his mama and didn't understand why she wasn't back yet. When she first put him in the wardrobe, Elboron thought it was just part of a game. That he would just have to be very quiet and there would be some wonderful surprise waiting for him afterwards.   
  
But Mama wasn't back yet. And it had been a long time.  
  
He snuggled deeper into Mama's mantle, breathing in her scent. He was glad she left it with him. She must have known that she wasn't coming back right away. Elboron guessed that it was another part of the game they were playing. Even if it was a silly, boring game.  
  
Elboron resisted the urge to kick his feet or sing to himself. Mama told him that he had to be quiet, no matter what. Even when the bad noises came from outside, he was quiet. When he heard scuffling in the room right after Mama left, even then he didn't make noise, sure it was just Mama testing him to see if he was doing as she said.   
  
So Elboron remained very quiet. He wouldn't make a peep until Mama told him he could. He promised.  
  
Again, the scuffling returned. Finally! Mama was back! Elboron smiled as he waited, thinking on the reward he would get when he told his mama how quiet and good he had been all this time.  
  
His brow wrinkled in confusion when he heard strange voices in his mama's bed chamber. Strange voices speaking strange words that he didn't understand.  
  
He shifted in the wardrobe, trying to hear the people outside better. He leaned slightly against the door.  
  
Then the door flew open and Elboron tumbled out into the light.  
  
***  
  
Thank you again to those who left reviews. 


	5. Chapter Five

Songs of Slaying, Chapter Five  
  
by Michelle  
  
***  
  
Exhausted and drenched in sweat by the time he reached Emyn Arnen, Faramir scarcely noticed the sun setting far in the west and the shadows overtake the land. His horse was as tired and bone weary as he, yet still they moved quickly on. The sense of urgency he felt when galloping out of Minas Tirith did not abate across the distance, but rather increased, swelling to massive proportions.   
  
As he rode, the self recrimination grew worse with each passing moment. Why hadn't he paid closer attention to his dreams? He, of all people should have known better than to dismiss a dream. He, who had dreamt of his brother's death. He who had dreamt of Isildur's Bane. Instead, he attributed his nightmare to stress and lack of proper sleep. He should have done something. He should have . . .  
  
"My Lord! Orcs!" the scout came galloping back to the lines. He reined his horse up close beside the Steward. "Several dozen at least."  
  
Faramir nodded and drew his sword.   
  
***  
  
Hours and miles later, the band from Minas Tirith finally approached Emyn Arnen. The skirmish with the orcs was short and very much to the point with only minor wounds inflicted on the men. No orc, however, would live to tell the tale of that day.   
  
The decimation of the countryside was far less than Faramir would have expected given the reports from the King. If the Haradrim were simply raiding, there should have been more destruction all along the area, especially now that they neared the Keep. Instead, it seemed as if the raiders headed straight for Emyn Arnen and straight back out after finding what they wanted. He remembered a similar event a few years before, when he and his Rangers were tailing a group of Haradrim through the same area. The patterns of attack just did not match up.  
  
Whatever these men were after, they had it clearly in mind when they entered Ithilien.  
  
They dismounted just inside the broken gate.   
  
The carnage here was worse. Bodies were strewn about haphazardly, lying where they fell in pools of blood and worse. Faramir dared not look too closely on the faces of the fallen for fear that he would recognize someone dear to him. And yet, he was still drawn to look, just as he had been when he dreamt of his brother's death. He knew what he would see, what he did not wish to see, yet the morbid curiousity within would not be sated until he saw the brutal outcome.  
  
His eyes scanned the bodies as he walked through the Keep, looking for the familiar splash of blonde, breathing easier as each body he passed was not Éowyn's.   
  
Walking in a haze through the Great Hall, he gasped and fell to his knees before one of the bodies there, unwilling to believe . . . The dark hair he knew so well, the gray eyes cold and lifeless.  
  
Faramir reached out a shaking hand to the cold body of his dear friend.  
  
Beregond.  
  
Beregond, who risked his own life for Faramir. Who had come to Ithilien with Faramir and his new bride, pledging to serve and protect them and their family with his life.  
  
Faramir never expected Beregond would actually fulfill this pledge. He struggled not to weep over the body of his comarade, passing a quick hand over Beregond's eyes, Faramir stood and began to move around the hall, still looking for some sign that his family was not dead.  
  
"Sir?" A firm hand touched his shoulder. Faramir started, turning toward the voice with wide open eyes still glistening with unshed tears. "Sir, there are some . . . men here requesting to speak with you." The soldier glanced over his shoulder, indicating where two tall, dark haired figures stood in a doorway, one of them holding a large wrapped bundle in his arms.   
  
Faramir crossed to them, immediately recognizing them as the Queen's brothers. "Elladan. Elrohir. I am grateful for you assistance, though I wish it could have led to a better outcome." He dared not meet their piercing gazes, too afraid he would lose all control and begin sobbing openly. Faramir did not notice that the bundle in Elrohir's arms moved at the sound of his voice.  
  
The elf princes nodded. "We arrived not long after the Haradrim left. We have found no trace of your wife."  
  
Faramir noted they did not mention his son. "Elboron?" He asked, stepping closer, suddenly meeting their gazes. "Is he . . ?"  
  
The bundle twisted again, this time a small hand pulling at the fabric and a tiny, round face peeked out from underneath the dark blue mantle.  
  
"Elboron!" His tears did flow then as he took his son from the elf's arm. The little boy clung to him, pressing his face into his father's neck. Faramir pressed a kiss to the boy's soft hair and rocked him slowly in his embrace. "Ai, Elboron," he whispered. "You are a most welcome sight this day."  
  
After a long moment, Faramir turned his attention back to the twin elves. "Were there any others?"  
  
Elladan shook his head. "Your son is, in fact, the only living creature we found in our search of your Keep."  
  
"There has been much death here. Your son was lucky to remain unscathed." Elrohir brushed a graceful hand across the boy's cheek. "Though perhaps he has not remained entirely so."  
  
Faramir looked down to his son. "Were you hurt, Elboron?" The little boy shook his head. "Is there anything amiss?" Again, the boy shook his head. Faramir frowned. "Son, please tell me if there's something wrong." But the boy remained silent. Faramir looked up at the twins, a question in his eyes.  
  
"He has been thus since we found him in what we presume was your personal chambers, tucked in the wardrobe. He has not spoken a word in our presence."  
  
Faramir looked down at his son, now quiet in his arms, face pressed against his father's chest. "It does not matter for the present. Elboron is safe. That is the important thing." A strange fire then lit in his eye. "You say you found no trace of Éowyn?"  
  
The twins nodded their assent.  
  
"Did you happen to note in which direction the Haradrim were heading?" Raw hunger, a thirst for blood and vengeance glowed in his eyes. He would find his wife and the men who attacked his home. Never before had Faramir felt such complete rage, such blood lust. He knew now what fueled many of the men he both fought and fought with during the War.  
  
Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a quick glance, understanding what raged within the Steward all too well. "They headed south. There is little doubt that they will go direct to Harad."  
  
Faramir nodded to the princes, then walked with his son to the area just outside the gates where the Gondorians were laying out bodies.   
  
Covering his son's ear that was not turned toward his chest, Faramir raised his voice. "Men of Gondor! We have been attacked most grievously and unprovoked by the Haradrim! My wife, the Lady of the Shieldarm herself has been taken from our home against her will! These very men that have slaughtered wholesale your kin now ride south, to Harad!" He lowered his gaze, meeting each soldier's eye that dared look into the Steward's.  
  
"We ride at first light."  
  
***  
  
Note : Apologies for chapter four being Elboron rather than Faramir. I had intended to write another Faramir chapter, but Elboron demanded to be heard.  
  
A huge thank you to the reviewers for all their encouragement. I deeply appreciate everything you write.  
  
Updates may be a little fewer for a while. I think I found a beta, so that will increase times between, and the end of the term is nigh. After which I am moving across the Atlantic (again!). Please be patient, I promise to see this through to the bitter end. 


	6. Chapter Six

Songs of Slaying, Chapter Six  
  
by Michelle  
  
***  
  
The enforced marching was not something Éowyn particularly cared for, never mind the fact that it was at sword point. The people of Rohan were simply not built for long marches. She would take weeks in the saddle over a few days on foot any time. Still, she felt lucky to be alive, after what she saw back in Emyn Arnen, even if she now knew the reason for her continued existence. Éowyn shuddered just thinking about what they would do with her.  
  
She lay awake long the night before, listening to the Haradrim talk in their lilting, strangely beautiful tongue. She had hoped to hear something else to give her a hint about where they were headed, and more importantly, why. The where became clearer by the passing moment as they marched south. The mountains to her left were getting smaller, receeding into smoother and flatter territory. If they kept this rate, they would reach South Gondor, across the River Poros in less than two days.   
  
Given the pace and direction, Éowyn surmised that they were headed for Harad. Though, for all her attempts the night before, Éowyn did not understand Haradric and was unable to parse their speech. Perhaps if her husband were here . . .  
  
Éowyn momentarily closed her eyes in pain, thinking back on the face of her husband when she last saw him, over three months ago. The day he left for Minas Tirith was one of the first truly beautiful, clear spring days that year. She still envied him that ride to Minas Tirith.   
  
She and Faramir had spent the night before his departure putting papers and records in order as Éowyn would administer the burgeoning community in his stead. They stayed up far into the night, pouring over papers and documents, discussing what must be done immediately and what could be put off for a later date. A ghost of a smile passed across her lips as she recalled that not all of their time that evening was spent ordering affairs of state.  
  
Faramir left early in the morning, before Elboron awoke. Excitement was apparent in his posture, no matter how he tried to hide it, and she loved him all the more for it. Faramir was never happier than when he was piled high with more work than he could ever hope to finish in the allotted time, even when he only received headaches for his trouble. There were times Éowyn wondered how she ever survived those dark years at Medusheld without him.   
  
In the three months since he left for Minas Tirith, Éowyn was often depressed, a feeling she was unused to since marrying. Faramir was her husband and healer; her beloved.   
  
Éowyn wondered if she would ever see him again.  
  
She turned her thoughts from the emotional, unwilling to bring herself close to tears once again. The physical aspects of the journey were taxing enough. All the better to focus on the physical pain. Her feet ached and Éowyn was sure that if they weren't blistered and bleeding already, they soon would be.   
  
The Haradrim woke them some time before dawn, and they marched for a long while by the time the sun made its first appearance over the Ephel Duath. Her stomach long stopped rumbling and Éowyn suspected the water they were given that morning was all the nourishment they would receive that day. For the first time, she hoped desperately that she was not with child. She could not bear it if these Haradrim caused her to lose her unborn babe.  
  
The past few years in Ithilien had spoiled her, she though, head pounding in discontent. During droughts in Rohan, she had not eaten as well or as often. Even the king and his family were not exempt from the difficulties of lean times.  
  
Linyaliss, her son's nurse was feeling the pressure of the march and lack of food much more keenly than Éowyn herself. Early on that day, Linyaliss had slipped and fell. For her accident, she was given a violent cuff to the head. Blood had dried on her scalp, matting her hair. Éowyn had to help her walk, making sure that she did not slip again in her fatigue and confusion.  
  
"I'm sorry, my Lady. Perhaps now I can now walk on my own. I do not wish to trouble you . . ."  
  
"Nonsense, Linyaliss." Éowyn interupted. "I can hardly abandon you to these cruel beasts," she spat toward the Haradrim. "We shall walk together and lend each other our strength." Éowyn tightened her grip on the older woman and they walked steadily on, together.  
  
It was no surprise when the orcs attacked. The summer was long, hot and dry. Livestock had been disappearing frequently that summer, and travellers between cities were attacked much more often than in the past, even during the War.   
  
Temporarily distracted by the orcs, the Haradrim turned their attention from the small group of women as they cut into the orcs. Sensing her chance, Éowyn pulled on Linyaliss' arm. As they turned away from the main group, Éowyn met the eyes of her fellow captives. With a small motion of her head, she indicated that they should follow her.  
  
"Can you run?" she whispered as they quickened their pace, moving away from the thick of battle. Linyaliss nodded and they began to rush toward a stand of trees nearby.  
  
A stray orc jumped out at them, hissing. As it approached, Éowyn pulled Linyaliss down, dodging the orc's attack. Dropping her companion's arm, Éowyn kicked the orcish blade from its foul hand and took it up for herself. She dispatched their attacker in one sure stroke of the blade, then turned back to help Linyaliss.  
  
A Haradrim held her to his chest with one arm, his blade at her throat. Linyaliss' eyes danced in panic and fear.  
  
"Drop sword." He ordered in stilted Westron. Behind him, the last of the orcs were being finished off. Most of the women with her, Éowyn could now see, had not even bothered to try to follow her. She could yet run, but it would mean Linyaliss' life. And she would not get far with all the Haradric raiders aware of her flight. Shoulders dropping in defeat, Éowyn threw the hooked blade to the earth before her.  
  
The dark skinned man barked out something resembling a laugh. "Stupid Western." Then he slit Linyaliss' throat, letting her body drop to the ground.  
  
"No!" Éowyn screamed as she ran to the body of her fallen friend. She grasped for Linyaliss, but the Haradrim pulled her away, back toward the rest of the. She struggled in his grasp, desperate to reach Linyaliss. Éowyn twisted in the Haradrim's hold, determined to be free. Swiftly, she delivered a blow to his face and followed it with a sure knee to the groin.   
  
He just laughed.  
  
Éowyn fought tooth and nail as he hauled her away, but the man was too strong and she was too small, too weak.   
  
The image of Linyaliss grasping for breath as her lifes blood ran down her throat and pooled on the ground beneath would haunt Éowyn for many nights to come.  
  
***  
  
Note : I apologize for taking so long to get this done. My lessons have severely cut into my time for such things.   
  
A heart felt thank you to those who left reviews.  
  
Special thank you to Crys for all her help so far and her patience with someone who can not quite grasp English grammar. It is to her credit that she could turn this chapter into something much more readable and multi-leveled than its first draft. I am deeply in your debt. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Songs of Slaying, Chapter Seven  
  
by Michelle  
  
***  
  
Faramir was unable to sleep that night though he knew he should. His mind told him that he would need every bit of strength he could muster for the next few days. But something kept him awake. That something was Éowyn. Éowyn, out in the night somewhere, alone with the Haradrim. She could be dead at that very moment and he would not know. Only her murderers would know.   
  
Something inside Faramir was still hopeful, however. Somehow he knew that she was alive, that she breathed yet.   
  
Faramir looked on his son, curled up asleep on a cot in the corner of the tent, sucking on his first two fingers. The soldiers had quickly cleared the Keep of bodies and began to ready for the burials. Though the buildings were now cleared of the dead, much work was needed before they would again be habitable. On the morn, some men would need stay in Emyn Arnen to take on the sad task of burying the dead. Already the scent of slaughter began to attract unwanted attention.  
  
Elladan, one of the few he would trust with such a task, would personally escort Elboron to Minas Tirith, along with a small contingent of the troops. His son would be released directly into the King's care. The elf would also take the opportunity to ask his brother-in-law for more troops. Faramir was sure he would need the additional support before the end.  
  
This act by the Haradrim was as good as an open act of war. Elrohir would accompany Faramir south, along with the larger group of Gondorians. The band would not be as large as that of the Haradrim, but time was of the essence. Faramir dared not wait to follow only to find his wife dead before he could arrive with aid. Already he feared that waiting the night was a mistake.   
  
An act of war the attack on his home may be, but Faramir could not think of it in such terms. That term was too lofty, too impersonal for the violent, horrible acts the Haradrim perpetrated on his lands.  
  
Faramir brushed his hand gently over his son's head, still mystified after all these years that he had a hand in the creation of this being. This perfect being who, despite his midnight tresses, resembled his mother in every other manner, down to his stubbornness. That same stubbornness was now keeping the boy silent, no matter the temptation laid before him. The boy refused to speak a word to anyone. Even at his father's coaxing, Elboron remained tight lipped to the point where tears of frustration began to fall down his alabaster skin. Faramir surmised that at some point, the boy promised to remain silent. And silent he remained.   
  
Faramir did not need to wonder what would have happened to his son if the boy had been discovered. There were other children amongst the slaughtered. The Haradrim had shown no mercy, killing both the young and the old with equal viciousness. If Elboron had been found, Faramir would be mourning the death of his son and heir as well as the capture of his wife.   
  
He smiled slightly down at his son, taking comfort in the fact that he was safe.   
  
Faramir stood suddenly and walked to the half-open tent flaps, gazing out into the camp. How could he take comfort in the sparing of his son when his wife was missing? When it was his fault this had occurred? He should have done something. He should have known that one squad of Rangers was not nearly adequate to protect Emyn Arnen from more than the occasional band of orcs. He wasn't blind nor was he stupid. Just like everyone else, he was aware of the increase in raids lately. He was the Steward of Gondor, by Arda, not some green youth. In all Middle Earth, the only one more informed on this subject was the King himself. And still, knowing this, Faramir had willingly gone off to serve him. And had done so with a skip in his boots. He had not even considered further fortifications before leaving. Some Captain of Gondor was he.  
  
Faramir buried his face in his hands, not bothering to swipe at the tears streaming down his face as he thought of all the people dead because of him. Most of all, he thought of Éowyn, his fair and noble wife, reduced to the one thing he vowed to protect her from becoming. A prisoner. Visions of happier times flitted through his mind, increasing the tears rather than abating them.  
  
He remembered the first time he saw Éowyn and how infatuated he immediately was with her beauty and grace, even amidst all the sadness. He remembered the first time she laughed with him as they walked in the gardens; her smile lit up his entire world. Their first kiss, high atop the walls of Minas Tirith, was a kiss still talked of in Gondor. Their wedding day and the look his wife gave him as she pledged herself to him. The birth of their son and how small the babe looked in his arms. The night before he left, how they had spent more time absorbed in the feel of the other than the deeds most pressing. The last time he saw her, waving to him as he rode away from Emyn Arnen . . .  
  
Faramir stared down at his left hand and the ring on his thumb, thinking of its twin, his wife's. The rings they exchanged when they pledged their troth in Edoras so long ago. He had thought his happiness indestructible then and their love untouchable. Reality had soon set in, and though his marriage with the Shieldmaiden of Rohan was not perfect, it was blissful.  
  
And he had carelessly thrown away all of that joy with scarcely a thought. So absorbed in himself and the "greater good of Gondor," he had neglected his first and foremost duty; the protection of his family. Ai Elbereth, what would his father say about him now?   
  
Faramir was startled from his self recriminations by a tugging on his shirt sleeve. Elboron, sill rubbing the sleep from his eyes, stood before him. The little boy raised one arm above his head, waiting for his father to pick him up.  
  
Faramir bent and raised the boy in his arms, moving slightly away from the open tent flap as to not give the small child a chill. He was struck by the memory of his own mother, dead when he was barely five, and how he had searched out for the her warmth in the night but never found it. Finduilas was only a distant memory to him, an intangible being receding on the edges of his mind. She was a memory of a memory rather than a real individual to him.  
  
He looked at the boy in his arms, so much younger than he when his mother died. Elboron would not even remember the little Faramir did . . .  
  
Elboron reached up to his father's face, one chubby fist wiping at the tears falling down Faramir's cheeks. The gesture was Éowyn's, and Faramir was forced to smile, a quirk of the lips. Elboron shook his head fiercely as he wiped the tears from the other cheek, as if to remind his father that Mama would not have tears shed over her. Elboron wound his arms around Faramir's neck and buried his face in the crook.  
  
"Ai, Elboron," he whispered into his son's hair. "I miss her too."  
  
***  
  
Notes : *bows deeply before reviewers* You make my day every single time I read a review. Without the feedback I received on my last two ficlets, I never would have even attempted this. Thank you so much.  
  
Again, heaps of thanks upon Crys for beta reading this fic. Those reading will please note the marked improvement my last two chapters have from the first few. *nodnod* So much better! Grazie mille!! 


	8. Chapter Eight

Songs of Slaying, Chapter Eight

by Michelle

They watched the women very closely now, unwilling to be troubled with still another escape attempt. As if any of them had a chance at escape anyway! The Prince sent his best men for a reason.

It would hardly do for his new bride to enter the city in any other but the best hands.

For the little trouble it caused them, the Wraithsbane's actions were fortuitous for them. Her carriage gave her away. Straight backed, she always attempted to appear taller and did not look away when someone met her eyes. At the very least, this was no serving girl.

Fadil had been watching her when she tried her escape. She led and did not follow. And if any doubt still remained, it was washed away when she picked up the orcish blade. Even these heretical foreigners did not train their women to fight. And this woman obviously used a blade before.

Fadil smiled as he watched the Wraithsbane toil before him, remembering how she struggled against him when he dragged her back to the encampment. He chuckled below his breath as the image of her earlier surprise played before her mind. Did she really think the Prince would send whole men to collect his bride? The very bride whose fame and beauty spread even to the Prince's far away ears?

Not that Fadil was impressed with that beauty. To his eyes, the woman he killed today was much more asthetically pleasing, her skin softer, eyes a clearer shade of azure . . .

As if he could do anything about it, even if he wanted to, Fadil smirked.

In all fairness, he gained more appreciation for her beauty after her escape attempt. There was a terrible beauty in her ferocity as she slew the orc and turned to face him, the battle lust still full on her. Her eyes flashing, hair caught in the wind. Fadil understood in that moment what the songs of Éowyn Wraithsbane were trying to capture. And failing at it, miserably.

He watched the Wraithsbane now and her seven remaining companions as they set to the task of the pyres, along with some of the lower ranking Haradrim. They would burn even the slain orcs this day, though separate from their own dead and the dead woman. All children of the One God had sould to put to rest, no matter how foul and twisted. Even the Orcs did not deserve the eternal unrest of becoming a spirit, forever to haunt this battlefield.

Fadil raked his gaze over the women as they worked. Though he no longer possessed the key element that made him a man, he still had an appreciation for the female body. Especially these strange women of the West. All of the women shied from his gaze, turning quickly back to their work. All save the Wraithsbane. She stared defiantly back at him, daggers in her eyes. He was proud he played a hand in the capture of this prize. The Prince was sure to be most pleased at the strength and determination of this one, even though she would soon learn her place. And the pleasure of the Prince was sure to reflect in his pay.

Fadil wondered now how they had ever been uncertain of the Wraithsbane's identity. So different was she from all the others, in every mannerism.

This confusion now worked in their favor, however. The other women they'd captured in their haste would fetch a fair price in the markets of Khand. Fadil did not doubt that the slave trader's along the Harad Road would give them more than a fair price for all their troubles. A fair price indeed, one which, as the spoils of their triumph in Ithilien would not revert to the Prince. Not that the Prince would even need know of the others. Already Fadil was thinking of how to spend his share of the profits.

The Wraithsbane herself would bring the highest amount, if they were to sell her. A shame it was really that she would go only to the Prince. If Fadil was perfectly honest, he did not put much faith in this new Prince of the Haradrim. He was a bit . . . young, to be sure. And hotheaded. Fadil did not see the intelligence behind attacking the North solely to acquire a single female. They had plenty of females in Harad, ones that would not form the sparks of war. Fadil had served under the last Prince during the War, the current Prince's sire. That man never would have approved such an act, even to ensure the strength of his sons.

But the Prince was the Prince, and Fadil's loyalties lay with him. And if they did not, he would lose more of himself than just his manhood.

The Prince was a fortunate man, Fadil thought as he eyed Éowyn Wraithsbane much as one would when selecting a horse. He grinned beneath his face wrappings as she finally looked away in shame.

She would learn her place yet.

__

_A/N : I apologise to everyone who has been waiting for this chapter. I've been going through quite a lot lately. I moved across an ocean, went to summer school, and now I am taking 21 credits at a University. Somewhere in the midst of all of this, I lost a beta and started a new job._

_Thank you for bearing with me. I promised once that I would finish this and I shall. It just might take me a while . . ._


	9. Chapter Nine

The group finally stopped for rest on the bank a great river, near a crossing. The Harnen, if she recalled her geography correctly, though with each passing day, she found it increasingly difficult to access the deeper recesses of her long past education. For all the difference it made, she could be at Mithlond or even the Blessed Realm itself. Every step took her farther from where she wanted to be. Every breath was one more she took away from her home. The despair she thought banished so long ago was beginning to creep in at the edges. She could feel it at night more keenly, but the moment that she let her attention drift away from her present pain and circumstances, it was all she felt.

Éowyn looked over the few remaining women from Emyn Arnen, an already woefully small number that grew ever smaller by the day. The death of Linyaliss had pained her more deeply than the others, a simple product of their close association, but that did not make her the cold, unfeeling Horse-lord the self-same people sometimes still accused her of being.

She supposed they would accuse her no longer.

Swiping at a threatening tear, Éowyn focused her attention on the chunk of hard bread she'd been given by one of the masked men. It was no small task to consume the bread, but as she'd discovered days ago, it was gnaw slowly on that or have nothing at all. Though it was plain and meager, she'd persist.

The women remaining with her were not so stoic about their situation; she'd overheard one or the other of them complaining about their state more than once when the Haradrim were otherwise occupied. It was not a conversation that they shared with Éowyn. In fact, it seemed that they'd stopped talking or even looking at her at all since the death of Linyaliss.

Éowyn could hardly disagree with their tacit assessment of her role in the death of their friend. If not for her, the Haradrim would never have ventured north to Emyn Arnen, would never have taken the keep. No, indeed, they may have pillaged the countryside, as was their common wont, but it had been unthinkable to the point of absurdity to imagine that such a small group of raiders would make an attempt on her home. So absurd that her husband had left them with a single group of rangers to guard them. The look of betrayal in Linyaliss' eyes as her life's blood spilled out . . .

Éowyn swallowed.

A commotion rose from where the bulk of the red cloaked men ate their own hard bread. A pair of runners was coming in swiftly from the east. They stopped short in front of the man Éowyn assumed was the leader of the small band, and they spoke quickly in their rough, unintelligible tongue.

Moment later, the red cloaked men swung into action, collecting their meager belongings and roughly hauling the women to their feet. From there, the men forced the women to increase their pace nearly to a run.

Already bewildered, Éowyn only became more so as their party split the very moment their feet touched the other side of the river. All but she and three of the Haradrim headed off to the north-east, while she and her captors continued on to the south. As she cast a glimpse in the direction of the women, something deep within told her that it would be the final time she would ever lay eyes upon them.

She ran on, south.

_Has it truly been so long? Alas, life (3 degrees, several moves, and two cats) got in the way. With some luck, I shall be able to find my voice again!_


End file.
